The Pack is Everything
by kydasam
Summary: SLASH VH/C Finale of Brother Wolf/Sister Wolf trilogy. Van Helsing and Carl are captured and are taken back to Rome only to discover that a situation has arisen where only their werewof curse can save the Order.. Rated M for adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel

Series/Sequel: The finale of the **Brother Wolf/Sister Wolf Trilogy**

Warning: Suggested violence, slash relationship.

Disclaimer: I don't own the canon characters within this story, nor do I own the genesis of this trilogy. But I am grateful for the opportunity to continue on with both.

**Feedback**: Thank you for your emails of support! They really did help shape this story—I hope it lives up to expectation. Please let us know if there is something that should be changed or if there is something you hope to see happen in the story. Thats what makes a good story!

_To Kydasam—you are missed more than you know. I hope you enjoy the story!_

_To __**Shoshone**__, my Beta, thank you helping me gather the courage to attempt this story and for making it shine. it would not have been written without you._

Special Thanks to Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

Brother Wolf : Van Helsing and Carl are sent by the Order to find and hopefully cure a werewolf being shown by a traveling circus. Along the way they run afoul of a mercenary band of hunters headed by a madman called Nikko; a cold hearted circus owner who wants to use Carl and Van Helsing as his new exhibits; a troupe of circus performers who start out as enemies and become trusted friends; and a village of werewolves, the leader of which wants the hunter and his friar to join them.

Sister Wolf: the second story is about Van Helsing and Carl adjusting to being wolves and discovering that intentionally or not, they have formed their own pack, they've learned they depend upon and love one another as friends. The Order dispatches a group of Hunters to bring them back to Rome. Also, Nikko resurfaces when he too is infected with lycanthropy, but his metamorphosis creates a monster who can only destroy. _His hatred of Van Helsing and Carl leads him to murder and consume the monks of a local abbey, then alert the Inquisition saying the murderers are Carl and Van Helsing._ The story concludes in a fight to the death between Nikko's werewolf and Carl's. Carl is victorious, but he cannot bear the thought that he has killed, even when forced to it by a madman. All parts of the story come together here: Van Helsing is captured by the Inquisition and Carl by the Knights of the Order. The Order and Reynaldo, the leader of the Inquisitors, decide to affect a switch of captives. Once again, Carl and Van Helsing are separated, each in the hands of men who see them as only monsters. And each is now cut off from their first need—the Pack.

The premise of this story arc has to do with all the forms of family—both natural and unnatural. When both Van Helsing and Carl become infected with lycanthropy, they must learn to deal with the changes it brings about in their bodies, minds and souls. And, like an injured joint, once the mind and soul have been exposed to the open unclouded simplicity of the wolf's need for togetherness, it can never be whole again, except by accepting and embracing the need to be with and protect the pack. To do anything else leaves man and wolf a cripple who can never find peace.

_**

* * *

**_

In darkness there is life, in the night--freedom. Perhaps it's an unthinking, unasked for deity from ages past that ties antiquity to the present and makes sure those it touches never actually progress too far from their genesis.

_**The daylight offers nourishment and growth to the soft quiet places within the wood, causing small green things to unfurl with fragile life. It encourages quiet birth and young things to stretch their limbs toward the sky in a bid for new domains within a foreign environment.**_

_**But it's the darkness and its mistress, the moon, that causes the ancient forest to remember its primeval root, and every living thing within its fastness is carried back with it. Back to its powerful awakening when birth was a cataclysmic event of fire and killing frosts.**_

_**Darkness takes the earth back to the first awareness and sets the beast within free. In daylight you might deny the beast and fancy it a figment of the imagination, of tales and legends. But, in darkness comes an undeniable clarity of vision that exposes all the lies we swear by. In their place, an age-old truth becomes a certainty that sunders the mind and flesh.**_

**…**

_**The darkness beneath the great trees split open and bled silver shadows that raced over the cold moist ground with silent paws and laid back ears—shadows dotted with flaring golden eyes and bared white fangs. It's not actually true to call these shadows 'wolves' because their primal root has been infused with the awareness of men; but they are no longer truly men either, here in the darkness. They are a new life that pays homage to their common beginning—the first wolf and the first man. They are the combination of both and in those who embrace this essential fact, there is an understanding that brings transformation and power. **_

_**True, the power comes at a cost: like the primal wolf who survived his harsh world, like primal man who seized dominion over all, this power insists upon the knowledge that there is safety and growth in numbers, in the Pack. There must be an understanding of what comprises the Pack, an understanding that lives in the blood and bone and for which life will unthinkingly be given to protect and preserve. When the whole is healthy, all within it survive and prosper. When the Pack is torn and wounded, none will rest until it is made whole again.**_

_**It's not conscious thought nor mulishly mouthed platitudes that drives this. It must come from the root of the beast itself, and once that's understood, everything else makes sense. Nothing is impossible.**_

_**Not wolf. Not man. Not single or alone. There is only the Pack. **_

--------------------------------

**The Pack is Everything**

"You will walk," the Inquisitor spat into Carl's face, his hand clutched tightly in the coarse brown fabric of the blanket the friar wore as concealment of his nudity. In the heat of the afternoon sun, on the broad yellow field, Inquisitor's presence succeeded in blocking out everything else

"Yes, yes, I'll walk!" Carl squeaked, squirming as the blanket clenched in the cleric's fist tightened about his neck. "If you'll just let go…," he wheezed.

A harsh shove got the friar tripping forward, the pure silver manacles about his wrists and ankles jangling. His captor and the five others dressed like him in the same black and white robes of the Inquisition fell in step around him, their hands conspicuously placed on the hilts of their swords.

Before them, the inhabitants of the nearby village, Keely, parted like the tall field grass, staring and whispering; when they caught Carl's gaze, they sketched hasty crosses or, worse, shoved their loved ones back behind as if to protect them from him.

He dropped his eyes, concentrating on the black-cloaked backs of the men of the Inquisition who surrounded him, forcing his awkward barefoot passage over the hot brittle field toward Keely. The villagers might not want anything to do with them, but apparently that mattered little to his captors. He'd gathered from their sparse conversation amongst themselves that the Inquisitors were on their way to the village's abbey, to meet with the unfortunate survivors of the werewolf attack. "Unfortunate" because those survivors, though they had sent for the Inquisition, were now, like Carl, due to fall under the dominion of God's Dogs. Survivors or not, they'd had contact with 'unholy beasts' and were now suspect, a situation they were not likely to survive.

A rough hand slammed into his back, shoving him forward as his footsteps lagged with his thoughts. Staggering, he threw out his hands for balance only to drop them immediately, clawing at the falling blanket that served as his only clothing.

Around them, the same villagers who had drawn back at his gaze pressed forward for a quick peek at his exposed body. Miserably he admitted he didn't blame them for seeking any titillation they could glean from the situation. They'd come to this field expecting a day at the circus and they had instead been treated to a fight to the death between two werewolves. One of which changed before their eyes into a nude friar. Even with the inclusion of the dreaded Inquisition, that was a show that topped the circus any day.

He blinked and licked his lips; squirming as the rough itchy blanket scratched at the wounds he gotten in his fight with the werewolf Nikko. He desperately wanted to wipe his eyes free of the sweat dripping into them but he didn't know how he could manage that and keep the blanket positioned with the limited play the chain between his wrist manacles allowed. A stray thought wandered through that it really was too hot for blankets—why was it everyone always had a hot stuffy blanket at the ready but no one carried a cool cotton sheet?

Gingerly, he flexed his shoulders, wincing. His body ached from the wounds he'd sustained in his fight and now his mind ached with the knowledge of the death he'd caused.

How could he deny he was a monster now? He'd killed.

Reflexively, he found himself wishing with all his heart and soul for Van Helsing. His need for the hunter's calm presence, the unassailable assurance in Van Helsing's hazel eyes, was a physical ache that cut him like a blade more savage than the wounds Nikko had caused.

A fist slammed between his shoulders, shoving him hard forward. He cried out in shock and then pain as his barefoot came down hard on a sharp rock, making him hop awkwardly then trip as his leg manacles tangled. This time he would have gone down if the Inquisitor that walked at his side hadn't caught his arm, hauling him upright. He chanced a glance at the man at his side, wincing at the familiar features.

Reynaldo. This Lead Inquisitor didn't draw back or cross himself when he looked at his prisoner. Unlike his fellows, he didn't stoop to spoken threats or common rough handling. His dark eyes, when he directed them at Carl, were probing and thoughtful and he kept bodily contact between them to a minimum, making it all the more devastating when it finally occurred.

Carl shivered at Reynaldo's touch, drawing away as soon as possible. What he knew of this man made him fear his touch more than any incidental violence the others could inflict. Reynaldo was well known for his love of pain, he'd made no secret of his belief that each falling drop of a penitent's blood was a step closer to God. But the search for true redemption could not be realized by the grossly inflicted pain of a fist or weapon—rather it had to come subtly and slowly, taking his victims into the dark pit where agony dwelt. Reynaldo's pursuit of this form of salvation could have washed the Palace floors with the hot blood of those he'd 'redeemed'.

Carl believed with his whole heart that the man was a monster.

Regrettably, he was also a member of the friar's own family.

Reynaldo had made this fact known to Carl two years past, seeking him out and informing the horrified friar of their relationship, on his father's side. When Carl had attempted to question his father, his queries had been met with only a tersely worded reply affirming the fact and a dry suggestion that Carl spend as little time as possible with his twice-removed cousin. His warnings were hardly needed, the friar had avoided Reynaldo like poison.

For his part, the Inquisitor made no especial effort to seek Carl out; but, when they met by chance, he took every opportunity to delay the friar and question him minutely on his family and his daily doings. A desperate mix of lies and rabbit-like reflexes got Carl out of most of these meetings relatively unscathed. And, after each meeting, he'd suffered a mixture of acute relief and contrition—he had never worked out exactly which he _should_ be feeling.

Now, he couldn't stop the traitorous hope that somehow this unlikeliest of connections would save him. But did he really deserve to be saved?

"We are almost there." Reynaldo's quiet voice broke into Carl's muddled thoughts. "When we arrive at the village, you will stay close to me at all times," the Inquisitor instructed and Carl nodded once, sharply, even as his skin crawled at the thought.

* * *

Van Helsing's awareness returned to him in piecemeal—first came the omnipresent sense of pain. He was used to that, not even bothering any longer to attempt rating it on a scale of discomfort. Though, there was a small nod to the fact that certainly this particular pain, centered in the back of his head and radiating to all outward points, was something he was getting much too used to. At what point had he signed up for a life where having his brains regularly bashed into oatmeal was a common occurrence? He stifled a groan of discomfort, more from habit than conscious thought, as he tentatively stretched and in doing so made his second discovery. He was bound. He could feel the chafing restriction of a hemp rope about his wrists, binding them tightly together before him so that the adrenaline-fed pulse of his blood rebounded hotly between them like a rubber ball.

He didn't open his eyes, but he did flex his fingers slowly, then his forearms, then biceps…. Carefully, slowly, with only minute movements to signal each test, he checked his body for function. He discovered that his legs were apparently unbound though judging by their stiffness he wouldn't be making any abrupt movements soon. Apparently he'd been unconscious for a good long while this time. Carl wouldn't be pleased he'd managed, yet again, to subject his skull to another doomed duel with the business end of a club.

That thought provoked another, more sluggish but insistent. He allowed it to emerge, pushing aside concerns of location or lurking danger with total disregard. Whatever his mind was trying to remember, it was something worth his life.

Realization stabbed through the haze like a red hot needle, and his hazel eyes flew open. "Carl!"

Immediately, his eyes began to stream as the direct sunlight stabbed into them, seeking out the headache that came roaring forth to meet it. Within the watery white fog clouding his abused eyes, a merciful shadow took shape, moving first to loom over him, and then sinking down at his side. He noted the series of clicks and creaks that announced his visitor's joints probably felt no better than his own and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the pools of obscuring moisture from his eyes so he could see who his apparent captor was. To his surprise, a helpful hand came down, bringing with it a soft cloth that swabbed his eyes. Before it had completely lifted from his face, he had opened his eyes, narrowing them to get his first good look at the man above him.

"Markus?" he murmured, his forehead creasing as his dark brows drew together in a surprised frown. "What are you doing here? What's happened to Carl?"

The grey-haired hunter above him smiled slightly, just the corners of his mouth lifting as he shook his head.

"That's like you," he grunted. "You awake to find yourself a prisoner and the first thing on your mind is your friar? You spend more time thinking of his wellbeing than your own."

Van Helsing ignored the question in the other Hunter's eyes and instead directed his gaze to the area around them. They were still in the field the circus had chosen, a short distance from the village the performers had hoped to lure out with promises of exotic and thrilling entertainments. Certainly they'd kept their word, though not in the manner anyone had planned.

His eyes narrowed, brows coming down in a dark V as he squinted into the sunshine, searching for the one face he knew would not be present. The other hunters that had come with Markus were present; settled down in a temporary camp, their constant vigilance denying any pretense of resting. They were dark-eyed, dark-faced men who had succeeded in cutting off their emotions. They'd known Carl for years, had been witness to all the quirks and eccentricities that made him unique and irreplaceable. Now, in a single afternoon, he'd become just another monster.

Van Helsing swallowed hard at the taste of bile at the back of his throat, shoving up roughly to a sitting position. Immediately the other hunters gave over their varied other tasks, turning as one to watch him with unblinking eyes.

Markus too watched him, his grey eyes narrowing assessingly. "We mean to take you back to Rome…to the Order. You're one of us so you deserve some dignity in your treatment. If you swear to me that you'll give us no trouble, I'll keep the bindings and restrictions at a minimum."

Van Helsing couldn't help the huff of amusement as one dark eyebrow rose in a sardonic arch. "I'm a werewolf, Markus. It's not likely your idea of 'minimum' and mine are going to match. And you still haven't told me where Carl is."

The other hunter shrugged and rose with audible creaking joints. "Stubborn as always—alright, have it your way, Gabriel. As for Carl, we weren't the only ones looking for you two. The good brothers at the local abbey had a nasty run-in with the other werewolves from that village. All but two of the brothers were killed, very gruesomely. The survivors apparently notified the Inquisition, who lost no time in hotfooting it out here. They're the ones who found _you_—_we_ found Carl…."

Markus' voice trailed off, his gaze expectant upon Van Helsing, nodding grimly as he saw the other hunter's eyes narrow and anger spark within them.

"Aye, I suspected you'd take it that way. Gabriel, there was no help for Carl. He was seen turning from a wolf into a man by a hundred witnesses. The Inquisition was certainly going to take one of you and demanded both. They weren't going to settle for nothing."

"So you turned Carl over to them?" Van Helsing snarled, his voice rising as he struggled up to his knees.

The other hunters' arrival stopped Van Helsing from rising any further as their hands fell heavily upon his shoulders and arms.

"Better the friar than you," Markus grunted, then fell back, eyes widening, as Van Helsing lunged against the hands holding him.

"You _know_ Carl—he's saved your life a hundred times with his weapons. Saved all our lives. And you threw him to those jackals?"

An unexpected twinge of guilt lanced through Markus' mind, reflecting momentarily in his face and eyes before he rigorously suppressed it. Gesturing at the incredulous man whose angry eyes stirred those unwelcome feelings, he spoke to the other hunters in clipped short tones.

"Manacle him. Make sure the locks are fast. We'll move out in 15 minutes."

He turned away then, though he winced at the sounds of struggling behind him.

"Markus! It's not too late…"

For a second he hesitated; for a single second, Markus' mind suggested a devotion foreign to the Order. The horrifying possibilities that burst from that slight chink in his loyalties caused him to drive out the thought with desperate strength. Shaking his head to rid himself of any clinging shred of doubt, he squared his shoulders and back with an almost audible snap.

"To each his own," he growled and moved away, leaving behind Van Helsing's cry of disbelief and damnation.

* * *

The narrow dirt streets of the village were at once deserted and full to bursting. It seemed that every single villager had gone to the circus that morning, thus essentially emptying Keely. And now they were all returning, closely following Carl and his captors step for step.

For some reason, the black-and-white garbed Inquisitors didn't seem disposed to object to this close scrutiny. At a guess, Carl supposed they welcomed the chance to prove to the population that the Inquisition was still alive and thriving. It was easy to deny monsters in the dark of night, but so much more difficult when it paraded in front of you in broad daylight. The Inquisition's public profile might have globally declined somewhat but there would be no doubt in this village that they existed and continued their horrifying vocation.

The warm soft dirt of the streets was a relief to Carl's bare feet, yet he found it difficult to appreciate overly as each step brought them closer to the Southern end of the village and the dark bulk of the abbey.

Its doors were yawning open and even from a distance of some yards the hot stink of blood was plain.

As if by a single switch the crowd abruptly stopped their forward progression. Risking a look back, Carl saw fingers were flying in warding signs as the villagers got their first good whiff of the evil that had come so close to their own doors. He saw it in their faces--the moment they linked the deaths of the brothers with the werewolf in their midst. Horrified, he wanted to deny it, to shout his innocence—but who would believe him?

A sharp prod in the small of his back got Carl walking again, although much more slowly than before. Mercifully, the villagers remained where they had stopped, unwilling to take one step closer to that black doorway.

They'd come within a dozen feet of the dark entry when the shadows within stirred, drawing upward, its silhouette spilling outward onto the dirt road like a tainted pool.

"Eeep!" Carl squeaked as the men about him stopped and drew their swords. He dropped back from what he was sure was another werewolf only to find to his horror there was no where to go. Despite his captors' shoving and proddings, his feet stubbornly refused to move one step closer.

From the abbey, the figure within moved slowly forward; it's form flexing in unnatural ways in the diffused light of the slanting sunlight. From the graying light within the structure, it came forward and became a murky figure which grew rapidly shorter as it stepped into full sunlight.

Carl blinked, straightened, and then leaned forward for a more careful look.

It was a monk. A simple monk, dirt and blood streaked, carrying a prayer book from which he could be heard to be reading.

The surprised huff of sound from the crowd startled the brother, bringing his eyes up with a snap. He almost dropped the battered book he carried and juggled it for a second before regaining a firm grasp.

His breath whistled through is teeth as he gave the book a little pat, then, visibly steeling himself, he at last turned his attention to the crowd before him.

He was a man of medium age, about Carl's size, with bushy brown hair and a round face that currently had a pronounced green tint to it. His brown eyes were magnified by round wire spectacles that perched on the bridge of his thin nose like an exotic bird on a branch and his wide mouth was thinned in the bloodless straight line of a man trying hard to keep his lunch down.

The monk's black robe was torn and bloodstained, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal thin bloodstained arms and long blunt-fingered hands. In every way, he seemed a normal, run-of-the-mill monk, though traumatized, and Carl allowed a breath of relief to gust out.

The monk's eyes had roamed the crowd before settling on Carl and his guard. He blinked, released one hand from its death grip on his prayer book to adjust his glasses, and then took another longer look, cocking his head to one side.

"Oh…you must be the brothers of the Inquisition?" he hazarded in a breathless voice. "I had heard you were here."

"You 'heard'?" Reynaldo queried, moving to the fore, one dark eyebrow rising.

The monk nodded, checked, then nodded again more firmly. "Yes. That's about it. I heard…as opposed to saw…which I suppose I'm doing now." A nervous titter burst from the man's lips only to turn into a rigid grimace of embarrassment. He gestured first to himself, gripping the black material over his heart in a death grip before pointing back to the abbey's open door. "Er…I'm Brother Albert. It's-I'm..." He took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself before meeting the head Inquisitor's gaze with a pathetic trust and hope. "I'm sorry. It's pretty awful back there. I'm glad you're here…"

"Indeed? How refreshing," murmured the Inquisitor, cutting the monk's rambling explanations short, and with a flick of his fingers the lead Inquisitor gestured the others forward. Immediately, two of the black-garbed Dominicans moved to take hold of Albert's arms, jerking them forward. The brother's prayer book was jostled from his hands, he made an aborted lunge to catch it only to be hauled back upright as manacles were closed about his wrists.

"What-what, no! You-I-wait please! Please, I don't understand!"

Albert's protestations were ignored as he was shoved back to stand before Reynaldo.

The dark Inquisitor's pale lips curved ever so slowly in a slight smile as his gaze traveled over the flustered man, at last coming to rest upon his face with a light in them that struck the little monk silent, his wide eyes fixed on Reynaldo as if he were a serpent about to strike.

"That's better," Reynaldo's smile deepened. His voice was a soft murmur that Carl, standing beside Albert, was barely able to hear. "This is an official investigation. You understand?" The other nodded feverishly. "Now, I will ask you questions. You will answer them, completely, with as few words as possible. You can not sway us, you cannot lie to us. Your only hope of salvation lies in your cooperation.. You are a monk of the church—I know your salvation is important to you…."

"Yes," the brother whispered as he nodded, then licked his lips.

"Good. That's good, Brother Albert. Now, where are the other brothers?"

"Other…well…inside. I think…"

"You think?" Reynaldo asked, frowning. "You came from the abbey…."

"No-Yes, well," Albert interrupted, then paled only to sag with visible relief as Reynaldo signaled him to continue. "I was on call when…whatever happened in there…happened. I had no idea at all …."

"No?" Reynaldo asked, patting the monk's arm. "It was a surprise?"

Albert's body relaxed as he nodded, evidently drawing comfort from the Inquisitor's manner. Beside him, Carl winced, wishing he could warn the brother in some way. As if reading his thoughts, Reynaldo's dark gaze moved to the friar's and his smile widened as he saw Carl draw back.

Nodding, Reynaldo took Albert's arm, urging him forward, toward the Abbey, despite the other's reluctance. He spared a look backward to Carl in a silent command and the friar found his feet moving before his mind had even registered the intent.

As one, their swords still drawn, the Inquisition and their prisoners moved into the structure, leaving the sunlight and the crowd outside.

The darkness seemed absolute and at first they stood still in the entry, allowing their eyes to adjust. Then, the Inquisitors moved forward, further into the abbey and the gardens without. When Carl was able to see clearly, he wished with all his heart that he couldn't.

All about them, the spare furnishings were turned over and slashed; over all was a crimson wash of blood. Their feet made sucking sounds as they trod in the sticky drying splotches of blood that was liberally sprayed over the floors, walls and even the ceiling.

Carl gulped, shutting his eyes in horror as the insanity of the wanton destruction tore at his senses and threatened to empty his stomach.

Beside him, Albert too shut his eyes, shaking his head as his features contorted in grief.

In the semi light, Reynaldo's dark eyes glittered as he took in the destruction slowly, as though memorizing it. When his gaze turned again to Albert, he cocked his head as if perplexed.

"I see the blood, of course, but not your fellow brothers. You said they were in here?"

Albert's eyes opened as he swallowed, then nodded. "I…found some…pieces. That's all."

"Pieces. That's all?"

"Yes." The monk nodded once, his jaws clicking shut.

The sounds of approaching footsteps alerted the return of the other Inquisitors, each shaking his head to Reynaldo's questioning glance. With each mute report, Reynaldo's face became sterner and his gaze upon Albert grew more thoughtful.

"All gone," the lead Inquisitor murmured. "No sign of them except for…pieces. Yet you are alive. You came from this place of death and blood, with signs of the beast at every turning…yet you are unharmed. How can I explain that? I cannot. How would you explain that, Brother Albert?"

Albert's pale face paled further as he shook his head, his eyes flying from one implacable face to the next. "But I…wasn't here. I had to attend a christening! I don't **_know_** how this happened or why, I only saw footprints of a beast as I returned home, but I don't know how it got in…."

"'Don't know…' " Reynaldo murmured, his long pale hands steepling before him as he regarded the monk thoughtfully. "You speak of a beast—one beast. You spent enough time in this place, amongst this death, to ascertain that much?"

"I was administering extreme unction!"

"You are a very brave man…or you knew you would not be hurt. Perhaps you know more about this hell beast than you remember at this moment? Yes, yes, I know you were away from the abbey," Reynaldo held up his hand to stop Albert's renewed explanations. When the monk fell silent again, Reynaldo sighed, then nodded. "I think you can help me, Brother. And in return, I can help you."

Carl was moving forward, blocking the Inquisitors who reached for the monk's bound arms. "Wait! He doesn't know! Reynaldo, don't do this!"

Reynaldo's thin mouth softened as he clucked his tongue, one hand rising to pat Carl's bound wrists. "Sshh, Carl. You and I will have our talk, all in good time."

**…**

Out on the darkening streets, the waiting crowd of villagers fell back and then fled in horror as agonized screams boiled out of the yawning doors of the black abbey.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel

Series/Sequel: The finale of the **Brother Wolf/Sister Wolf Trilogy**

Warning: Suggested violence, slash relationship.

Disclaimer: I don't own the canon characters within this story, nor do I own the genesis of this trilogy. But I am grateful for the opportunity to continue on with both.

**Feedback**: Thank you for your emails of support! They really did help shape this story—I hope it lives up to expectation. Please let us know if there is something that should be changed or if there is something you hope to see happen in the story. Thats what makes a good story!

_To Kydasam—you are missed more than you know. I hope you enjoy the story!_

_To __**Shoshone**__, my Beta, thank you helping me gather the courage to attempt this story and for making it shine._

Special Thanks to Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

Chapter 2

In the stony catacombs below the Palace, time passed slowly. For those who lived in this place, in the cells designed by the Order to house evil, there was only the dull grind of days punctuated by the visits of the Handlers. Those grim men of the Order came to the cells to determine the fate of the inhabitants. If the monster was a hybrid—part monster, part human--they were worked with in the hopes of reclaiming the men and women whose unwilling bodies evil used for its own purpose.

Sometimes, the Handlers were successful, and those men and women who were reclaimed left the catacombs and cells they had no memory of to return to the sunlit world outside.

For those that were pure evil, that had no part of a human soul, the catacombs proved to be their final destination. It was a fact that no monster ever left the catacombs; they arrived and spent the span of their days as a source of study for information on their kind. Upon their death, their bodies were taken from one cell to another where their remains were subjected to even more intensive study.

For these monstrous occupants, time passed slowly; each moment was filled with only the memory of lost freedom and an ever-growing anger and hatred. The air about these cells was heavy and dark, turning the stomachs of even the most hardened Handler. For this reason, they were set further back, deep in the earth where only those with a reason ever went.

Left in darkness within and without, evil festers and corrupts, changing its shape and form into something unknown. It grows and gathers strength and begins exerting pressure, like a corked bottle left to ferment too long. All it needs is a single incident, by intent or accident, to allow its explosive release.

**….**

The captive Fury, Sybl, sat alone in a cell that was well to the fore of the catacombs, a place of honor due to her usefulness to the Order. Countless times, she'd used her gift of Sight to spy upon the holy Knights in their pursuit of evil. At first, she did this by order of their leader, Jinette; from him, she learned of the comings and goings of these Knights, of their missions and successes and failures. By his questions and reactions to her information, she'd dug far into the Order's secrets. Now, she was able to follow them for her own amusement. On the wings of birds, the backs of insects, and through the eyes of the monsters they pursued, she learned all there was to know about these Knights whose deathless pursuit had brought her to this place so long ago….

Sitting now on her single wooden stool, her dark eyes directed sightlessly outward, she smiled a small kitten's smile of malice. They'd broken their own rules, these Knights. They'd granted her requests for small things, countless harmless concessions gained patiently over the years that would never normally have been granted to an unredeemed soul. Now, in her cell, where she saw all the comings and goings both within and without the Palace, Sybl sat hidden in shadows, and directed her Sight inward, into the deepest recesses of the stony earthen fist that bound them.

Clenched in her bloodless white hands was a scrap of fur from a fresh kill. The last, small, harmless concession they'd made, and the last item she'd needed. It was only a scrap of fur, but it was fresh and a shard of the animal's consciousness still clung to it, a tiny sliver of its soul. She carried that sliver with her on the journey her Sight took her upon, to a cell not too far removed from her own. To the cell of a demon who, when she presented her precious gift, obliged her with the temporary control of the woman whose body it inhabited.

For the first time, Sybl saw the world from human eyes and marveled at the limitations humans were obliged to live with. To her now-human ears came the sound of the Handler. He sounded tired and discouraged…this would be easier than she had thought.

* * *

When Markus and the hunters broke camp, they did so with careful attention to detail. Van Helsing had been raised to his feet and covered by several unswerving pistols as his hands were unbound and then rebound behind him. He'd tested the manacles and been forced to admit they weren't going to come off without a key. That same key was placed in Markus' vest pocket with a look that warned Van Helsing against any attempt to reclaim it.

Now Pearson had taken the manacles off his ankles, backing away with a wariness that promised a bullet between the eyes if Van Helsing so much as twitched. He couldn't help a rueful smile that tugged at his lips as he admitted to himself that he might have tried it if Pearson had only a club instead of a gun. Carl was right; evidently all those bashings had finally made him an idiot.

Thoughts of Carl brought a savage pain to his heart; he dropped his eyes to the ground rather than let the other Hunters see it. As a result he missed the approach of a small group of people from the circus. A quiet word of warning brought all eyes up; the Hunters closed ranks immediately, surrounding their prisoner. He felt the nudge of the blunt muzzle of more than one pistol in his ribs; he took a careful breath and kept still. The little contingent approaching promised to introduce a new wrinkle to an already messy situation, the last thing needed was provocation on either side.

At the fore of the circus contingent marched Vermin, closely followed by Clarie in her tights and two clowns, one Madam Puce, the other a man anonymous behind his white painted face and outsized red nose.

The group was an unexpectedly ludicrous sight and might have been dismissed but for the fact that they had, however temporarily, housed two proven werewolves. Van Helsing's eyes narrowed as he saw speculation appear on the faces of the other Hunters. It wasn't difficult to gauge their thoughts—was it possible that any one or even all were infected as Van Helsing was? How far had this infection spread?

He met Vermin's knowing gaze and a real smile curved his mouth as he nodded to the dwarf, remembering the little man from their first violent meeting—one that now seemed like an omen. He raised his eyebrow as the little man in turn nodded to him with an evident sparkle came in his brown eyes as if he had no difficulty guessing the man's thoughts.

"Trouble ever where you go, eh mate?" the dwarf's raspy deep voice announced over the small distance between them.

"It's my curse," Van Helsing admitted, then winced as he felt the deeper prodding of more than one gun muzzle. He tilted his head toward the other Hunters as he said, "You might want to stop over there, just to keep everyone from getting too nervous."

"Aye," the dwarf conceded, sucking his teeth thoughtfully as he gestured to the others to stop while still some yards distant. "They look a bit twitchy at that," he observed. "Easy ter see yer the pick of the litter—which explains a good bit of the recent trouble don't it, mate?"

Markus moved forward to stand before Van Helsing, effectively putting a halt to the dialogue, his grey eyes were speculative as he looked over the small group. "I'm guessing you didn't come to see Van Helsing off," he queried, nodding at Vermin's snort. "What do you want then? I advise you not to interfere; we're prepared to do what is necessary to accomplish our mission."

"Wouldn't dream of interferin'," the dwarf announced with an air of righteous indignation that shaded rapidly into wily speculation. "Buuut," he hedged, tapping his chin, "I think we might be in a position ter do you a good turn. And likewise, you could 'elp us out as well. A bit of turn an' turn about; that's fair an' above board."

Behind the dwarf, the other performers were doing their best to appear as wholesome as possible; judging by their limited success it was not something at which they'd had a great deal of practice.

Markus' grunt of dubiousness only served to widen Vermin's smile. "Don't let the paint an' frills put ya off. We're 'ere on legitimate business. Fact is, we both 'ave somethin' the other wants. You want ter take yer man 'ere back to Rome, we want to travel to Rome wiv the circus, maybe make a little cash. Fact is, wiv all this werewolf trouble, business 'as been scarce as an honest Pope…." Vermin's dialogue checked and he clucked his tongue. "Whoops! Beggin' yer pardon on that one! I keep forgettin' yer holy boys wivout yer robes and wotnots."

"No doubt," Marcus grunted. Behind him he could hear the other Hunters shift positions, even a few grunts and growls. The dwarf did have a talent for getting under the skin. He found himself wondering how Van Helsing had ever been able to travel with the man without darting him. "I can see your point--traveling with us would offer you some protection on the journey. I can also see all kinds of additional trouble for us with no benefit, plus the possibility you'll use the first opportunity to set Van Helsing free."

Vermin rocked on his feet; upon his face was an expression of doting disappointment, but it didn't take a genius to see he was obviously pleased to correct Markus' thinking.

"Now now. Don't try yer 'and at pretendin' wiv a bunch of circus folk! It's obvious yer askin' yerself if, after all this time in the company of a pair of werewolves, the lot of us aren't wolves too. Don't blame you for feelin' a little nervy on that score—I wouldn't fancy tryin' to get one captive wolf wiv the smarts of a 'unter 'ome while surrounded by another pack of 'em in the woods and then possibly bein' followed by _another_ pack of 'em in this circus. You've got wolves all but comin' out of yer arse!"

Vermin clucked his tongue, shaking his head as he inched forward, canting his head to one side and lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. Van Helsing's dark brows rose and his mouth quirked as without thinking, Markus moved forward as well, leaning down to hear the dwarf.

"Ain't it easier to 'ave us all in one place? Where you can see wot's comin' rather than wolves and could-be-wolves spread out all over these woods? An' 'avein' us in the mix might make those other wolves think a thin' or two before poppin' out at yer. Safety in numbers!"

"Mmm," Markus nodded, grey eyes narrowing as he straightened. "You've given us something to think about…. And I won't deny I'd rather have you in front of me than behind."

Vermin bounced on his toes, beaming. "So, we've struck a deal then?"

A deep sigh boiled up from Markus' gut as he turned from the dwarf to look over the grim, resigned faces of the other Hunters. Well, most of the Hunters.

"He's right," Markus growled at Van Helsing, raising a pointed eyebrow at the other man's enjoyment of the situation.. "You are trouble!"

"Welcome to my world," Van Helsing said, "and God help you."

**….**

They set out immediately. True to his word, Vermin had the circus move out first, followed by the Hunters. With Van Helsing's hands bound behind him, they were forced to travel slowly. When the dark Hunter suggested that they bind his hands in front, so he could grasp the reins, Pearson had snorted loudly, then blushed as both Van Helsing's and Markus' cold gazes fell on him. He'd dropped his head and managed to slow his horse even more, falling back from sight. In his heart resentment boiled as he watched their prisoner and Markus talk with one another. Markus was asking Van Helsing his opinion on the best route back to Rome, how best to handle the wolves in the woods—it was ludicrous! One didn't ask the monster the best way to get it into a cell, and that was all that awaited the mighty Van Helsing. He had to know that. He wasn't a Hunter any longer. He was prey, and he'd been caught. Both he and Markus had best get used to that fact.

* * *

Some miles distant, Carl was on foot, walking with his arm about Albert's waist as he helped the monk along the path. On either side, the monks of the Inquisition formed a phalanx, riding on horses with drawn swords across the pommels of their saddles.

Albert's first meeting with the Inquisition had been as horrific as Carl had dreaded. By the time the 'questioning' ended, the sun had sank and come up again. Carl had asked for and been granted the opportunity to look after the monk—they'd given him fresh water and bandages but nothing for pain. Despite this, Albert had been pathetically grateful as Carl had carefully splinted his twisted fingers and bound his lacerated shoulders.

The monk's robe, soiled as it had been was at least wearable before, now it was nothing but tatters. The friar had steeled his nerve and asked Reynaldo for a change of clothing for both himself and Albert, forcing himself to meet the man's dark gaze for several seconds before, surprisingly, the Inquisitor had agreed. There was limited choice—while the thought of wearing one of the deceased monk's robes had given him a queasy feeling, the alternative of walking all the way to Rome in nothing but a blanket was infinitely worse.

Now, as the friar ministered to the other man's injuries, he was aware of the Albert's intent gaze, unasked questions were all too obvious in the monk's speculative eyes. Miserably, Carl chewed the inside of his cheek and considered what he should say, knowing there was simply no way he could admit to being a werewolf in this place.

When the last bandage had been applied, Albert nodded his thanks with a weak smile. "I appreciate your taking the time," he murmured; then his weary brown eyes slid over to the black and white garbed monks of the Inquisition, and a wry smile touched his lips. "Even in this place, they never actually get blood on their robes, do they. How do they manage it?"

Carl peeked out from under his lashes at the pristine white of the Dominican robes and shook his head. "I imagine it's all part of the deal they made with the devil."

A surprised snort from the monk brought Carl's gaze back to Albert.

"Sorry," Albert shook his head as he chuckled. "You've been so quiet, I thought you more the serious devotional type, though that didn't seem to fit how your average circus performer behaves."

"I'm a friar," Carl admitted, then added with a touch of humor, "we're allowed more leeway in our behavior."

"Ah, a friar, that explains it," Albert nodded soberly. "Yes, I had heard friars are typically a feisty lot.…"

"Well, I don't know about 'feisty'," Carl mused. "Makes us sound like redheaded tavern wenches."

"You'd know something about tavern maids?" Albert suggested, and then broke out in an honest grin at Carl's snort. "Quite a bit more leeway, I see!"

Carl's modest shrug and downcast eyes might have fooled someone else, apparently it didn't fool Albert as he stuck a careful finger in the friar's ribs, making him titter.

With a fond smile, Albert patted Carl's arm. "Thank you, Friar Carl. It feels odd to be laughing in such a sad place, but I truly needed it. I don't know how a friar, even one with a great deal of leeway, got to be here of all places, but I'm grateful for the company…."

"Ah…yes, well…." Shrugging, Carl set about putting together a bundle of medical supplies that they could use later, when Albert's bandages needed changing. He could see the monk was waiting expectantly for Carl's story, but he still couldn't bring himself to admit it. Not here…in this abbey. What had happened to the monks wasn't Carl's fault, but guilt by association seemed all too likely, even if Albert seemed to be a reasonable man.

A word from Reynaldo brought an end to their discussion, for which Carl was truly grateful.

An hour later found them well on their journey to Rome. As they walked through the cool shadows of the tall trees, Carl sighed and admitted that in this place, at last dressed in familiar robes and boots again, he felt a sense of control that was at odds with his situation. It made no sense—and yet he couldn't deny it.

Carefully, he adjusted his hold on the monk, and Albert looked up from his scrutiny of the path before them to meet Carl's gaze with a small smile.

"I appreciate the help," he murmured, for Carl's ears alone. "Your Inquisitor friend's enjoyment of _his_ work is making a bit of work for you, I'm afraid."

Carl's snort was loud and raucous, causing both friar and monk to drop their heads as the Inquisitors' dark gazes warned them against any merriment.

Carefully pitching his voice low, Carl spoke in Albert's ear. "'Friend' is not the word I would have chosen. Plague would be good…flesh eating cancer is also right up there. As for enjoying his work…I'm afraid you've got that one all too right. I'm sorry you got pulled into this."

"Wrong place, wrong time," Albert sighed, then gingerly poked Carl in the stomach with one bandaged finger. "At least we got a change of clothing out of it. Don't miss your blanket, do you?"

"Passionately," Carl affirmed. "It was like never leaving bed—God, I can't even _remember_ what a good night's sleep feels like. Still, I suppose robes and boots are more sensible given our circumstances. How's the back?"

"Sore," Albert grunted. "I'd recite a 100 Hail Mary's if I could get my hands on a tankard of ale right now."

"Ooo," Carl moaned, eyes closing briefly. "200 if it came with a huge plate of steaming beef and those little white potatoes."

"And gravy," Albert agreed, and grunted, "Of course, if we're wishing, I'd prefer my meal and tankard in better company than the Inquisition."

The friar didn't answer; rather he raised his head and looked about the woods and at the men who rode on either side of them. He certainly agreed with Albert; he wondered if, when they finally reached Rome, Cardinal Jinette and the Order would insist upon his return. Was that too much to hope for? He prayed not.. If he was taken back by the Order, he'd make sure that Albert came as well. And then he'd make damned sure he never left his lab table again! Well…except for meals and a tankard or three….

The Inquisitor who rode beside Carl abruptly fell back as another horse took its place. With a sense of the inevitable, Carl raised his eyes to the rider.

Reynaldo smiled down at the friar. "You look more like yourself in that robe."

"Ah, well, clothes make the man," the friar muttered, then shrugged. "I can't help but notice what the robes of the Inquisition have done for you."

Reynaldo's eyebrows rose as his smile deepened and grew darker. "You disapprove, little friar?"

Looking up at the black and white garbed Inquisitor looming over them, Carl sighed. "I despair," he murmured, then shook his head and raised his voice once again. "We've traveled quite a ways and it grows late. Albert needs to rest—will we be stopping soon?"

Rather than censuring the friar, Reynaldo chuckled. "You fancy this a stroll in the woods, Carl? I admire your courage if not your common sense. Yes, we'll be stopping soon. I want to make sure you're both properly prepared for the night before it arrives."

"Oh…prepared," Carl nodded, then swallowed as his imagination suggested several disturbing scenarios that might fit Reynaldo's idea of 'properly'. In his arms, he felt Albert shudder and empathized completely.

**….**

It turned out that 'properly prepared" meant being re-manacled hand and foot and then tethered by the neck to stakes driven deep into the rich dark forest loam. They lay without covering or comfort upon the leafy ground as the Inquisitors set up camp, somewhat removed. Reynaldo and his men built a bonfire, so large that even at a distance Carl could feel its heat upon his face. He wondered if this was meant to keep any passing predators at bay—he couldn't help but remember the bonfire in the werewolf village with a certain dark humor.

As night settled over the camp and the darkness blotted out all that fell outside the fire's light, Carl closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand to their fullest. He could feel it…the watchful presence deep inside—the beast who possessed the power to shatter the restraints that bound him. The same beast who possessed the ability to destroy and kill…..

Without even being truly aware of it, Carl's mind slammed a barrier down, shutting off the wolf completely as he shuddered. The beast…he carried it within him. He'd committed murder in its guise. True, Nikko was a monster in every sense of the word, but that didn't absolve him of the man's death.

He'd never be washed clean of that blood.

As if he were a beast himself, sensing weakness in his prey, he saw Reynaldo rise from the fire's far edge and come toward him. Gliding through smoke and sparks, his eyes shining red with the fire's glow, his face dead white, he came with sword drawn like Judgement.

* * *

"Carl!" Van Helsing bolted upright, staring into the dark night, his wide eyes glowed with a golden light.

"Gabriel," Markus rose from his sentry post to approach warily, his eyes on the man as his fingers tightened about a drawn pistol.

"Carl…he's afraid," Van Helsing growled, dark brows drawing down as his body tensed against the manacles that bound him to the thick trunk of the tree.

"Afraid? Aye, I'd believe that knowing where he is…and who he's with," Markus murmured. "How do you know, though? Maybe it's your imagination…"

The golden eyes turned to the hunter, and the man fell silent before their regard. Once again, their gaze turned outward, into the darkness.

"Carl," Van Helsing murmured, a low rumble in his chest roughened his voice. Before his eyes, the dark veil of night parted, splintering into silver shards and, though he could not have explained how, the woods about him changed, replaced by an open field.

_Horses were drawn up in a picket line, within sight of a large open fire. He could feel the blaze's heat upon his face, the rough grass that he lay on poked at his back and legs. Above him, the spirals of smoke tinted the pristine sky with whorls of grey and flecks of fire._

_His hands were manacled behind him and his legs were bound, a rope was about his neck, tethering him to a spike driven into the ground as though he were a stray animal._

_He became aware of a coldness, despite the fire's heat, that made him shiver and draw tightly into himself. He blinked…_

"_Carl?"_

_It might have been Van Helsing's voice, the gentle reassurance in it might have been his, but it came from someone else. Someone who he was afraid of...whose gentleness was a dangerous façade. Someone who cultivated trust only to feed upon it…_

_A face rose before him…emerging from the smoke and sparks._

"_Reynaldo."_

_The Inquisitor smiled. "I'm glad you're awake.. It's quiet now..we can have that talk I promised you."_

A grating growl ripped through Van Helsing's chest, becoming a roar into the darkness as he surged forward against his bonds. For an instant, his form flexed, shifted….

Markus raised his pistol and unerringly shot, aiming at the bound man's chest. In rapid succession, he pumped three darts into Van Helsing's chest. For an instant, he thought even Carl's darts wouldn't have an effect, then Van Helsing sagged back, head lolling against the tree trunk.

Warily, the grey-haired hunter approached the other man, only releasing the breath he held when he saw Van Helsing was deeply asleep.

Crouching down, he lifted one of Van Helsing's eyelids and saw it was once again human.

For now.

Tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel

Series/Sequel: The finale of the **Brother Wolf/Sister Wolf Trilogy**

Warning: Suggested violence, slash relationship.

Disclaimer: I don't own the canon characters within this story, nor do I own the genesis of this trilogy. But I am grateful for the opportunity to continue on with both.

**Feedback**: Thank you so much for the feedback! Your questions and comments definitely had a hand in shaping chapters 3 and 4! Please continue to send questions and/or comments and let Shoshone and I know what you'd like to see. Thanks to reviewers: Sasori4eva, Elwyndra, Ai-Sama, and Xanthia Morgan. Special thanks to daughterofpenthesiliea—you're right about the wing scars! And we'll have an theory on those in this story!

_To Kydasam—you are missed more than you know. I hope you enjoy the story!_

_To __**Shoshone**__, my Beta, thank you helping me gather the courage to attempt this story and for making it shine._

Special Thanks to Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

_**--------------------------------------------------------------**_

_**In his youth, he watched the sun set on the horizon with a dread that grew with the diminishment of light until he was sick with the fear of it. He was not allowed a nightlight to cut the darkness and render it harmless, so he lay curled within its monstrous grasp sweating and shivering with the fear of it. He cried out to God; stretched out his hand into the thick blackness that so terrified him and begged for the touch of God's hand as a sign he was not alone. He feared sickness and death and the loneliness both bring and he prayed for God to save him. But he never felt that divine touch, never saw a spark of light. And he waited, every night, eyes wide open, breath catching with each thump of his heart, for the first sign of dawn. Only then could he master his fears, his belief in eminent pain and sickness, to close his eyes at last. **_

_**The only god Reynaldo ever met in the darkness was Death. And as he grew under its cold hand, shuddering in its wake, whatever tiny spark he might have glimpsed within was smothered by the darkness without.**_

* * *

**THE PACK IS EVERYTHING**

**Chapter 3**

_A face rose before him…emerging from the smoke and sparks._

"_Reynaldo."_

_The Inquisitor smiled. "I'm glad you're awake.. It's quiet now…we can have that talk I promised you."_

Carl shivered, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to alternately whimper then snarl. He wanted to rise, to sit up at least but the tether about his neck forced him to lie in the dirt like an animal. In the eyes of the Inquisitor who rose over him like judgment, he truly was an animal.

The Inquisitor tsked, shaking his head as he leaned down and with his drawn sword cut the hemp rope that bound Carl's hands behind him.

"There…you'll be more comfortable now. I'll trust you not to misuse this small lapse on my part?"

Blinking hard, Carl forced his eyes to focus on Reynaldo's face as best he could as he clasped his arms hard about himself. There was no way to meet this situation with any kind of grace, he wouldn't torture himself by even attempting it.

The Inqusitor's dark head tilted as he surveyed the sprawled form of his cousin. He made no attempt to keep the look of satisfaction from lifting the corners of his thin mouth into a cold smile.

"I am sorry I can't do more…that you must pass the night so uncomfortably…."

"Ah, well," Carl attempted to shrug, grimacing as the tether bit into his neck. Biting his lower lip, the friar eased back down, taking a relieved breath as the slack in the tie allowed him to breathe easier. "I can make due—this is better than I expected…," Carl's voice grated and squeaked to a rusty close as his eyes grew large. Obviously, he felt such an admission would put ideas in the Inquisitor's mind..

A small chuckle passed Reynaldo's lips, what might have been a look of affection passed through his dark eyes.

"You are quite the innocent, aren't you, Carl? I don't believe there's a dissembling bone in your body…."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not go sorting through them to find out." The admission was plainly dragged from the friar as he shook his head roughly and curled more tightly into himself.

"Oh, I can well understand," Reynaldo nodded judiciously as he easily lowered himself to squat beside Carl. "Pain…it's frightening, I know."

Feeling he'd said quite enough, Carl bit his lower lip hard to clamp down on the traitorous squeak that bubbled up.

"Shush, Carl," Reynaldo soothed, leaning forward to pet Carl's blond hair, as if he were a frightened animal. "There, there. You needn't be afraid, you know. You really mustn't."

"M..mustn't?" Carl breathed, wishing he could avoid the weight of Reynaldo's heavy hand. It reminded him all too unpleasantly of the hand of fate and he didn't have a great deal of faith that any fate in store for him would be a pleasant one.

"That's right," Reynaldo nodded. "All of us sin, Carl. All of us. But very few acknowledge that fact and wish to truly atone. When you choose to atone before God, there is no pain. He takes it from you, and leaves in its place exultation and absolute cleanliness. Think of it, Carl. Clean, like a new born baby, but without the stain of sin upon your soul."

"Ah…well…that would be…nice?" Carl hazarded, lips wobbling in an awful parody of Reynaldo's beatific smile. "I doubt a simple 'Hail Mary' will do this time, though?"

"Nooo," Reynaldo sighed, shaking his head regretfully. "As we are taught, it must be an eye for an eye…. You murdered, Carl. You took on the devil's guise of a werewolf, allowed it to consume your body and soul and then did murder in its form…how can you render a child's penance for a monster's sin?"

"Monster's …," Carl gulped, his eyes fluttering shut in pain as his heart constricted tightly, cutting off his air. He closed his eyes tightly, dropping his forehead into his open hands. The same hands that had murdered. No matter what liberties Carl took with his station of 'friar', his faith in and love for God had never waivered. From childhood, he had spent many long hours in conversation with the benign father-figure that answered to the name of "God" in his imagination. Secrets that he'd never consider sharing with anyone else were laid with childlike faith at God's feet with the perfect assurity that faith was justified.

He'd never had any doubt that God heard his prayers and was, overall, pleased with him.

Until now. He had embraced the beast, chosen it…and had used it to kill. In defense of his own life, true, but did he have that right? Had he faced the choice of remaining in God's grace and dying or accepting the beast to live? When he chose the beast, had he lost God in the process?

"Yes, Carl," Reynaldo murmured as though he were privy to the friar's every thought. He stroked the fine blond hair of the shuddering friar, lowering his head to speak into Carl's ear, "Yes."

Some feet distant, Albert's eyes glinted in the red fire's light, his dark brows drawn down in a frown as his fingers curled and bit into his palms until they were bloody.

As though sensing the monk's regard, Reynaldo looked up from the suffering friar at his feet, his eyes narrowing as he attempted to pierce the darkness to see the other chained body lying some feet distant. It was a short distance, but the darkness seemed absolute, he could only make out the merest outline of Albert lying on the ground. He was absolutely still; it was possible he was asleep. Or, with the marks of penance still bloody upon his body, more likely he had passed out.

The Inquisitor's dark brows rose as he once again lowered his gaze to Carl, patting him one last time before rising. He had the air of a man appeased and at peace. Once erect, he sheathed his drawn sword, his smile deepening as he saw the friar startle helplessly.

"Think about what we've talked about, Carl. I know you're suffering now…don't let it be for nothing."

Albert waited, eyes barely slitted open, until Reynaldo left Carl to return to the fire. Only then did he open his eyes fully, turning them to the friar with pity.

"Carl?"

The blond friar made no reply, only curled into himself more tightly. Reynaldo's words were repeated over and over within his mind, damning and blighting him. And now Albert knew the truth as well. How could he face his friend without the specter of Death rising between them?

"_Carl_!" The monk's voice was like a whip crack in the darkness, jolting the friar so that, against his will, he uncurled enough to raise horrified eyes to the other man. In the darkness, Albert's eyes reflected the flickering light of the distant fire.

"I…I…," Carl stuttered, half-formed apologies choked him.

"Enough," the monk murmured, his voice softening. "I want you to listen to me. Don't talk. Just nod."

Gulping, the friar nodded, blinking rapidly at the haze of tears that made the monk waiver before his vision like a heat haze.

"The body was given to us as a vehicle, so we could move about this earth and do works that pleased God. But it's the soul, the heart, that communes with God and is truly his child. Mortification of the flesh, the destruction of the body he gave us to do his work with, that doesn't bring us closer to God. Please Carl, believe that God holds you in his arms every moment of your life and knows when you make atonement in your heart and soul. That's the only atonement necessary.

"B..bb…."

"But?" Albert supplied, his teeth glinting whitely in a smile. . "I heard him, Carl. This is your chance to atone in your heart. I ask you—did you set out to do murder?"

"No" Carl voice broke so that he had to cough and swallowed before he could try again. "No…I…was attacked by a werewolf…it…bit me. I tried to fight it…the change. I truly did! I swear, I never stepped foot in the abbey, I had nothing to do with what happened at the abbey, to the other brothers…."

Albert nodded, his eyes narrowing briefly as he regarded Carl's anguished face and haunted eyes. "Yes…I believe you," he sighed at last. "You know did do these murders, though?"

Carl gulped noisily, then nodded. "Nikko. I'm sure of it."

Albert shook his head, his dark brows knitted in confusion. "Nikko?"

Carl's eyes dropped uncomfortably to the hard packed dirt he lay upon, taking great care to pick out each individual pebble as he answered. It was difficult bringing all of their sordid history with this man back up, he was certain he couldn't do it while looking Albert in the eye. "Nikko was a bounty hunter we met him on the road. He was….not exactly wholesome." Carl closed his eyes tight, grinding back the more pithy descriptives that immediately sprang to mind. "He and his men were hunting a werewolf that a circus had been showing. Somehow, he was turned into a werewolf too, but…I think becoming a werewolf set something loose inside him….something that should have stayed hidden. When I met him again, in the circus, it was in broad daylight, and he had become some sort of creature…like a werewolf, but wrong…."

Albert held up a hand, halting Carl's recount. "You say you met him at the circus, in the guise of a wolf?" The monk sighed, nodding. "You were afraid he would hurt others…. That's why you took the guise of a wolf as well."

"Yes," Carl breathed, and closed his eyes again as tears finally came.

Albert lay back on the ground, his eyes upon the stars so far above them. "Carl, I've known you such a short time, yet I have no doubt you are a good man. Having heard your confession, I do believe that God forgives you. Don't hate yourself or despair of God any longer, please. No matter what Reynaldo may try to convince you of, keep your life and your belief in the God you've known all of that life. He appears to have been a compass that has never steered you wrong. Alright?"

The friar made no answer, none was really needed.

* * *

_Van Helsing…. He's nothing. Not any more. Maybe once, but not now. _

_The stories about him…about his coming from God…they are old wife's tales. When did failure and degradation take the place of merit? My heart is racing, my palms sweating—I can't stop this feeling of anger and …. And what? It can't be hatred…but I think it might be. _

_God help me. _

_I've been a hunter all my life…given everything I have in the service of the Church. And I've waited so long, worked so hard. I've had success; no one can deny me that. It's my turn to be granted respect…the assurance of God's favor. And yet, still…still Van Helsing… Markus, the others…they all look at Van Helsing as if he still deserved the title of God's Left Hand. If not even the mark of the devil is enough to break him, to knock him from that exalted pedestal. Then what will?_

_What will?_

_I will._

Van Helsing's eyes opened to take in the night-draped forest dotted by watch fires. Lethargically, he stirred, pulling his head up off his chest with difficulty. With some deliberation, he remembered that he'd been disturbed about Carl…something had…happening to his friar? He must have become too agitated…they'd put him to sleep with darts, he could recognize the groggy, musty-mouthed after-taste of one of Carl's very best. Van Helsing frowned, grimacing as he tried to remember, tried to imagine Carl in his mind and what it was that had worried him…. Some seconds passed before he gave it up, realizing he was more likely to fall back asleep than to recall anything of value.

He looked down at himself, blinking as he realized the hunters had tied him to a tree again. He was getting heartily sick of trees.

Some yards distant, he could pick out the wavering forms of the other Hunters, arranged about a large bonfire. Beyond that, the glow of other fires—no doubt surrounded by Vermin's circus folk. It occurred to him that he'd been staked out, far enough apart from the others, that he could be watched but not close enough to hear what was being discussed. Evidently some decisions were being made by his fellow Hunters that he wasn't likely to approve of. His mind immediately suggested that it concerned Carl…. He shook his head with a growl. There was nothing he could do for his missing friar for now; he wouldn't torture himself with fantasies of what could happen that he had no way of stopping.

With an effort he forced his mind back to the present, noting for the first time that they'd covered him against the cold—a wry smile pricked at his lips as he recognized his coat covering the lower half of his body. By the weight of it, if not by common sense, he could tell they'd stripped it of all the weapons it normally hosted. Still, it was a sturdy garment and he wasn't about to turn his nose up at it. A dark blob to the right of his legs took a bit to identify before it occurred to him that it was his hat. He cocked his head to one side as he admitted that he'd missed it

Leadenly, he shifted against the knobby tree bole in a doomed attempt to get comfortable; but his wrigglings abruptly ceased when from the darkness to his right a hard brittle _snap_ resounded in his ears like a shot. His breath caught under his ribs as he stared out into the night, his face raised slightly to the wind as he unconsciously scented it. He could smell it, the sharp sour stink of danger. Not a werewolf…familiar and yet not….

His eyes dilated and his lips parted in an unconscious snarl. From a patch of gloom to his right, another _snap_ was heard followed by the sound of a heavy breath of air being expelled in a grunt.

With chill fingers, the breeze spiraled about the tree he was bound to, touching him, tossing his hair into his eyes, chilling his skin. Behind him, against the tree's gritty bark, he flexed his bound hands, strained against the clasp of the silver handcuffs that were a standard restraint against werewolves. An odd thought strayed past—he'd never had to make use of them. When faced with a werewolf, capturing it had never been the first thing on his mind and by the time he had gotten around to second thoughts, cuffs weren't needed any longer.

Something ice cold touched and then slid against the fingers of his right hand and reflexively he jerked away from it. His breath caught in his throat as he turned his face in that direction, scraping the hair from his eyes against the tree's bark.

A flash of silver emerged from the darkness, sliding through it like a sword from heaven. His upper lip lifted in a true snarl as he recognized it as the blade of a large knife. It was an act of will not to flinch as the heavy weight of it tapped his cheek, an obvious warning to silence. His attacker needn't have bothered, he was well aware his throat would be cut long before he got more than a strangled grunt out. Once his anonymous assailant was satisfied with his silence, the blade continued on, sliding down at an oblique angle that avoided reflecting the light of the fire while leaving behind a thin line of crimson down to his chin. A warm trickle of blood followed the blade's path to drop from his chin to chest.

The blade hesitated there, the silver and crimson steel rested against his heart as if seeking shelter after a weary flight. Its glittering edge was more than sharp enough to pierce the leather vest and sweater he wore if its wielder truly did want to bury it within him. Each drop of his blood that coursed down his cheek to drop to the silver metal warmed it. He wondered if it would still feel cold when it slipped into his heart.

His wolf was well to the fore, he drew upon its keener senses as his own nostrils flared, drawing in the scent of the hidden assailant deeply into his lungs—he identified the sour sweat-scent as human, picking out the creak of leather garments as well. The hand holding the blade was dim in the shadows but he could see it was fair skinned. No trace of grease paint lingered on the wind so his attacker was one of the Hunters—obviously Markus' belief that Van Helsing still merited respect as one of them was not shared by everyone. And judging by the fact that, even though bound, his assailant would not show his face to Van Helsing made it likely the other man was afraid of him. This stranger hid his actions in the darkness, so plainly he did not believe all of the others would agree…. It took a different kind of ice-cold courage to murder a man in cold blood. The man behind him was having some difficulty summoning it up, his hand and arm shook with a fine palsy. He was on the razor's edge, but unless Van Helsing made a move or sound, he couldn't quite bring himself to do the act. The bound Hunter kept still, while he promised himself that, if he survived this night, he would remember the scent of this dark man and they would one day meet face to face.

The instant of hesitation teetered back and forth in the absolute stillness within which neither he nor his attacker breathed. Apart from the fires and other men, only the sound of the wind and the trees boughs scraping disturbed the silence.

And then there was sound—the heavy thuds of multiple running footfalls before the song of the wolf shattered the darkness and the false peace.

The hand holding the blade to his chest jerked spastically, then withdrew into the darkness. He heard the sound of the man's panicked breathing as he ran from Van Helsing, along the outer perimeter of the trees, back to the fire. From the campfires, men's voices in alarm rose with the sparks of hastily prodded fires. The fire closest to him outlined the milling forms and grim faces of the Order's Hunters—his eyes narrowed as he took note of their faces, attempting to pick out his would-be murderer; then growling when the kaleidoscopic effect of their crossing back and forth before the light made it difficult to be sure.

The wolves' song magnified as more voices joined, ringing them. He'd heard it before, seen this scenario before….

"No!" he shouted as the Hunters lifted their weapons and pointed them outwards, into the dark forest. He saw the grim set of their faces and bodies, the fire's orange glow was more than enough to pick out their disbelief before they turned their attention back to the woods.

"No! Markus! Vermin!" he shouted as he struggled against his bondage, his thrashing legs kicking his coat and hat aside. With all of his strength, he forced himself back against the tree and then up, sliding his bound hands up after. The rough bark broke off, flying outward like little arrows. "_Don't fire!_ Stand still!"

He saw Markus then as the bodies before the fire moved slightly, parting to allow the lead Hunter to emerge. The older man's eyes were narrowed, his expression plainly doubting. He couldn't see Vermin, he hoped the dwarf had heard him.

"If you fire, you may hit them or you may not. But you won't get them all," Van Helsing warned. "I've seen it before—so have you. In the clearing!" He saw then and paused, panting for breath, as remembrance flickered over Markus' face while his gun dropped slowly, slowly.

"Hurry! There's a chance if you do nothing. You must do _nothing_." His voice was a harsh bass growl, he could feel the firm touch of his wolf, so close to the surface.

Abruptly, Markus' gun fell from his fingers. Long agonizing seconds passed before it was followed, grudgingly, by the weapons of the other hunters. An eternity seemed to pass between each heavy thud and Van Helsing prayed that he was right, that he hadn't just sentenced these men to die. He was their prisoner, he was a monster…and he was responsible for their lives.

He shook his head, tossing his hair back from his sweating face. He'd made it to his feet, he wished he could free his arms, could go to the other men, not to join them but rather to protect both them and the Pack, now just outside the ring of firelight. He couldn't see beyond the Hunters' fire, couldn't see the fires of the circus folk, but he was certain that Vermin had his people well in hand. With luck, they were all locked into their wagons or, if not, then at least they would make no move against the werewolves when they came.

The Hunters waited, blind, awkward, doubting. The werewolves waited, grimly, purposefully. A moment passed, then another, then five….

The first ghostly flicker of grey rippled through the shadows for an instant only to disappear. Then another. And another. Circling them, the wolves darted lithely in and out of the shadows; they taunted the men, dared them to break and reach for their weapons, to sentence themselves to death.

"Steady," Markus breathed. Every hair on his body was erect as he felt his skin break out in a hard sweat and incongruous goose flesh. He was going to die this night, he was certain of it, and yet he could not force himself to go against the dreadful surety he saw in Van Helsing's face, in the golden eyes that pierced him from across the small distance between them.

He couldn't see all of his men, though he hazarded the slow movement necessary to turn his head so he could meet the other hunters' eyes. He hoped those he couldn't see were as steady as those he could.

When he turned back to Van Helsing, he blinked as he saw the darkness at either side of the bound man was punctured by golden eyes, staring back at him unblinkingly. He swallowed convulsively as a rapid count tallied more than a score. On all sides, he heard the first heavy treads and the snorting breath of large beasts as they glided from the darkness into the light.

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel

Series/Sequel: The finale of the **Brother Wolf/Sister Wolf Trilogy**

Warning: Suggested violence, slash relationship.

Disclaimer: I don't own the canon characters within this story, nor do I own the genesis of this trilogy. But I am grateful for the opportunity to continue on with both.

**Feedback**: Thank you so much for the feedback! Your questions and comments definitely had a hand in shaping chapters 3 and 4! Please continue to send questions and/or comments and let Shoshone and I know what you'd like to see. Thanks to reviewers: Sasori4eva, Elwyndra, Ai-Sama, and Xanthia Morgan. Special thanks to daughterofpenthesiliea—you're right about the wing scars! And we'll have an theory on those in this story! 

_To Kydasam—you are missed more than you know. I hope you enjoy the story!_

_To __**Shoshone**__, my Beta, thank you helping me gather the courage to attempt this story and for making it shine._

Special Thanks to Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**THE PACK IS EVERYTHING**

**Chapter 4**

He was standing so close to the fire, its heat scorched and burned him through the patched leather he wore and yet Vermin couldn't have moved so much as an inch even if his life depended upon it. With halted breath and bulging eyes whose whites shone starkly all around, he watched the darkness release the shadows that waited within allowing them come out into the light.

Werewolves. Dozens of them. Lithe and sleek, huge in the dancing red light, their glowing eyes and shining teeth held his riveted gaze. They came silently from all sides, only the bracken snapping and the dead leaves crackling beneath their heavy tread competed with the sounds of the fires. His hair lifted off his neck and arms, as though the silence were electric and possessed a static charge; in the face of it, he wanted to make a noise, any noise, to dispel the nightmarish quietude. But, like a mouse crouching absolutely still on an open field, he was dreadfully certain if he did make a noise he would die for it.

Vermin was aware of the other circus folk, standing frozen beside him, and he prayed they would remain so. He wished, with all his heart, that Peter were with them. The big man, unavoidably silent, would have had the advantage of them all here. Carefully, slowly he allowed his eyes to move, drifting slowly over to the other fire, where the Order's Hunters stood. They seemed like such big, grim men, whose very bodies gave off the coldness of darkness and death. A scary lot, for all his earlier bravado—funny, now he couldn't imagine why they'd frightened him so as he watched the werewolves, walking on two legs, pass among them like specters.

The dwarf couldn't see Van Helsing, his position among the circus wagons and the glare of the fires prevented it. He found himself wishing he could. Something about the man, even from the beginning, seemed to promise safety…or, maybe not safety, perhaps salvation described it better.

"The Left Hand of God," Vermin whispered without being aware he'd spoken until several of the wolves' eyes snapped toward him. He almost pissed himself as he tried to both stand absolutely still and to make himself as small as possible as one of the wolves glided toward him. Hazy in the smoke and sparks, the monster's eyes, fur and teeth glinting like stars, it came to him, so close its hot breath tossed his hair about and made his eyes sting.

Inside him, he could feel it coming, he couldn't stop it, though he clenched his fists until they were bloody and his teeth until they cracked, it came.

"Eeep!" A squeak, like a cornered mouse makes—his huge eyes, horrified, fixed on the werewolf as he waited for it to take his head off.

The great golden eyes, fixed so steadily upon him, abruptly blinked and the hot breath that seared his face stuttered. Vermin's dark brows soared toward his hairline as he identified the sound as almost…laughter?

Whatever the truth, the werewolf fell back, dismissing him and moving away as though he _were_ no more than a mere mouse. It moved with the others, leaving the circus folk behind, toward the Order's Hunters.

He wasn't even aware he was moving as well, until Clarie grabbed his arm with the strength of panic.

"No," her voice was a creaking exhalation and he was as taken aback as though she'd shouted.

He patted her hand, grimacing as he found it icey. "'s'alright, I think it's alright," he murmured. "Just stay right 'ere." He could see it plainly in her eyes that she thought he'd lost his wits, but he couldn't stop himself. He patted her hand once more, then he moved away, slowly following the werewolves. He remembered Van Helsing, so long ago, doing the same thing, following the big white werewolf into the darkness. He recalled he'd thought the man was a loon.

Vermin cleared the wagons one shuffling step at a time. He kept waiting for one of the monsters to notice him, to snarl or snap at him. He was certain they knew he followed, and yet they continued to ignore him. He didn't know if he was grateful or insulted.

One of the werewolves paused and looked back at him, it's upper lip flickered in a silent snarl.

Grateful. Very very grateful, Vermin decided as his feet took root on the spot. He could see past the wagons now, and his eyes unerringly tracked to Van Helsing.

Of course, he'd expected it, but his breath still caught in his chest and his skin broke out in hard gooseflesh.

Van Helsing, bound to a tree, standing before one of the werewolves. Neither moved nor made a sound, they regarded one another unblinkingly. One of the wolf's large hands completely encompassed Van Helsing's skull with careful power, as though it might crack his skull like an egg.

The other wolves waited, silent, watching the Hunters, watching Van Helsing.

Vermin watched silently too, though his mind was alive with unvoiced shouts. Unknown to him, his lips traced the silent words, "Just…do it, mate! Wotever it wants…don' be a bloody fool! Better a live mouse than a dead lion!"

He hadn't spoken, he was certain, and yet for some reason Van Helsing's eyes tracked to his. Vermin rolled his eyes, raising his eyebrows at Van Helsing, his hands making little shooing motions. "Wotcher waitin' for?" he mouthed and saw the Hunter's hazel eyes darken as one dark brow came down in obvious pique.

_Pique??_ Vermin shook his head, more convinced than ever that this Hunter, whom he had _somehow_ come to call a friend, was without a doubt completely crazy.

Van Helsing's eyes rose to the werewolf's before him, his mouth quirked into a grimace before he dropped his eyes. Without moving a muscle, his very posture relaxed into one of submission.

For a moment, nothing happened and Vermin, without moving his feet one inch, leaned so far forward he almost fell on his face.

And then the spell was broken. The other werewolves turned away, moving with watchful eyes to assume positions about the Order's Hunters and their fire.

The werewolf who held Van Helsing released his head with a lingering carress. Thoughtfully, the large muzzle dipped low, and then opened to allow a long tongue to slip over his face and throat. He raised his eyes then, his head tilting to one side as he nodded. Then the wolf was gone, moving to the fire to join the others.

Vermin moved as well, at a fast trot around the campsite to Van Helsing's side.

"Yer a daft sod, yer know that?" the dwarf hissed, hands on hips as he looked up at the dark Hunter, then to the wolves and back again. "Stark, starin' crackers!"

"I've heard that once or twice," Van Helsing admitted with a sigh, allowing his head to fall back against the tree bole. Wincing, he shifted, head rolling in irritation as he rattled the silver cuffs at his wrists. "We're not out of the woods yet, " he murmured, then grimaced at Vermin's wince. "Alright, alright. You know what I mean. Can you use your disgusting skills to get me out of these?"

"Disgustin' 'e says," Vermin snorted as he moved about the tree to take stock of the manacles binding Van Helsing's wrists. "Disgustin' 'til 'e needs 'em. Then they're just the ticket, eh mate? Bleedin' prima dona…'old still!"

"Hurry up then," Van Helsing growled and rattled the manacles again.

"Thin's I put up wiv," Vermin grunted as he easily located a needle thrust through his lapel and inserted it into the locking mechanism. "Yer should be more grateful, mate. Don' know where you'd be wivout me. Prob'ly goo on that werewolf's paw, think about that whilst yer complainin' an' carryin' on!"

Van Helsing rolled his eyes at the muttered reproaches going on behind him but a smile lifted the corners of his mouth for a second before his attention returned to the Order's Hunters, still immobile and still a danger.

A metallic _click_ announced Vermin's 'skills' were still up to par, followed by the cool slide of the manacles against his skin as they dropped to the ground. Gingerly, Van Helsing eased his arms forward as his muscles screamed their torture. Vermin trotted about the tree, taking one of his wrists to gently rub it.

"Yer a mess, mate," he grunted, shaking his head. "Why is it, ever' time I see ya, yer a in fix?"

For the first time, Van Helsing looked down at the dwarf, his hazel eyes lingering on Vermin's brown as a genuine smile lit his face. "Lucky that you're here to get me out, then, isn't it?"

"'bout time yer noticed," Vermin sniffed disdainfully, while a pleased smile darted about the edges of his mouth.

"I noticed," Van Helsing murmured, then directed his attention forward once again, toward the other Hunters and the waiting werewolves. "Come on then, we've still got work to do."

"Sure why not," the dwarf muttered as he followed with obvious reticence. "Give the pooches a little dwarf-flavored dog chow…yer barmy and I'm worse."

* * *

Pearson stood immobile, his gaze riveted upon Van Helsing and the little freak who had freed him from his confinement. So much that involved Van Helsing was unnatural, from the man himself to those that he surrounded himself with. Unnatural--against God and the laws of men. And now this…this grotesque stalemate between monsters and Knights. He could read it in the others' eyes—the Left Hand of God had wrought a miracle.

No, Pearson shook his head as his eyes narrowed. Not miracle…abomination.

"Steady," Markus deep voice insinuated itself into his thoughts, curling about them, ordering them to silence. This man, given the charge of the Knights by the Cardinal himself, was as close to God's voice on Earth as it was possible to be. The oath Pearson had taken and burned into his very soul originated from God and was channeled by Markus. He knew where he belonged, what he was a part of when that deep voice spoke, reminding him of duty and identity. So, once again, he reined in his doubts, and waited.

Markus turned his attention carefully from the jumpy young man at his side to Van Helsing, his grey eyes narrowing as he searched the dark man's face and eyes. His men's lives were at stake, possibly tied to the whim of this man he'd once called 'angel'. He had no faith in these monsters that surrounded them now, but somehow he still found it impossible to believe that Van Helsing was anything but the personification of God's plan on Earth. He needed to believe, so he did.

"Gabriel," he murmured as evenly and quietly as he could, with a bare nod toward the waiting wolves. "Where are we now?"

A grimace skewed Van Helsing's mobile mouth as his gaze met the knowing golden eyes of their visitors.

"I think they've decided to join us," he murmured, shrugging at Markus' involuntary bark of disbelief. "Or maybe a better word for it would be 'lead' us."

"Lead?!" Pearson grated, his face contorting into a rictus of disgust. "I'd rather die!"

Van Helsing's dark brows dropped as he approached Pearson, stopping within a foot of the man as a thoughtful expression came to his face. Deliberately, he leaned forward and took a deep breath. The other Hunter dropped back, drawing a large dagger from his belt only to drop it with a shout as the unnoticed dwarf at his side kicked him hard in the leg. As Vermin neatly scooped up the blade, Van Helsing's hand clenched in Pearson's jacket, pulling him forward until only inches separated their faces and he could see the panic in the other man's eyes..

"No," he murmured, for Pearson's ears alone, "not you. _You_ wouldn't be the one to die, would you?" Abruptly, Van Helsing shoved Pearson away, turning his attention to Vermin long enough to confiscate the blade from the disgusted dwarf and slide it into his own belt before returning to Markus. There was a slight scuffle that marked Pearson's rage and the subduing of it by the other Hunters, none of which was followed by Van Helsing

"Like it or not, these werewolves are like the ones we've faced before. They're not mindless monsters. They're not evil," Van Helsing said grimly, his gaze fixed upon Markus', as though willing the man to see past 40 years of indoctrination and training to see a new and different truth. "Why they're here…definitely to show us that. Probably to help us get Carl back."

"Carl? Why would they…?"

"Carl's one of the Pack," Van Helsing shrugged, frowning. "As I am."

"Gabriel," Markus caught the other man's shoulders, shaking them slightly. "You're no animal…."

"Nor are they. Whether you're ready or not, you'll realize that before this journey is over," he said with a tone of finality. Turning away, he looked up at the sky. "Dawn's three hours off. We'll set out now—we'll find Carl and come back…."

"No," Markus shook his head firmly, catching hold of Van Helsing's biceps with an unbreakable grip. "Whatever you have planned, I won't release you and these….to do whatever you want to the monks accompanying Carl."

"Inquisition," Van Helsing reminded Markus, the word dripping with disgust.

"Men," Markus rebutted. "You're no monster, you say they aren't either. I won't let you kill, even though the idea of the Inquisition sickens me, I won't allow it."

A genuine snort of laughter eased the tension in Van Helsing's face; he freed his arms from Markus' grip. Dragging one hand through his dark hair, he sighed then shrugged. "As I recall my time spent with Carl in werewolf form, he was incredibly single minded and stubborn to boot. By all means, come along. It won't be the Pack that starts the killing, but unless you can talk some sanity into Reynaldo, they'll finish it."

"Fine. I'll expect you to do your part too," Markus grunted. Steeling himself, he pushed past Van Helsing and moved with assurity he didn't feel through the werewolves, toward the horse pickets. He was surprised the mounts hadn't panicked when the wolves entered the camp and was more surprised when he realized that neither had the circus animals.

None of it made the slightest bit of sense, he was cut adrift with none of the anchors of tradition or training to cling to. He had only his faith in Van Helsing, a faith he'd been doing his best to convince himself was sheer superstition. Mentally crossing himself, he decided that it might be better if he put off reassessing that faith till a less dire moment.

* * *

Most of the night had passed as he tossed and turned; Carl only fell into a fitful sleep as the first color of dawn tinted the sky. Now he lay upon the ground, curled into himself, arms in a hard hug about his ribs as his dreams replayed his final fight with Nikko. Making small, unconscious sounds of distress, his hands clenched in his borrowed robe as he fought to escape his nightmare.

Albert, long awake, lay still and watched Carl fight his dream demons with pity. Judging by the friar's signs of distress and horror, it really took no leap of faith to believe his protestations of innocence. In fact, Albert found it difficult to imagine anyone more innocent of evil than Carl.

Another also watched Carl's distress; Albert's eyes rose to Reynaldo's as the monk approached, picking his way over the cold hard ground as though he thought he might disturb the dreamer. Meeting Albert's cold gaze, Reynaldo's dark brows rose in surprise. He would have supposed with assurity that the monk was had been well cowed in their last encounter. Evidently there was still room for improvement.

Stopping by Carl, Reynaldo sank easily down to squat beside Carl, a fond smile upon his face.

"It does my heart good to see him struggle with his doubts this way," Reynaldo murmured, reaching down to stroke Carl's hair then clucking as the friar unexpectedly swatted his hand away.

"I'm sure it does," Albert agreed. "Is it true that you are a member of Carl's family?"

Reynaldo's dark head dipped even as he shrugged. "Yes. We are cousins actually. On our fathers' side." A dark smile touched his lips. "Though our upbringing was markedly different. Carl's father inherited the family business…mine, alas, inherited only the name which proved, regrettably, to be poor collateral."

Albert nodded, swallowing before he ventured, "You resent Carl for his good fortune?"

Reynaldo's answering bark of laughter was unexpected. "My kingdom is not of this Earth, brother. Trust me, I don't long after my poor damned cousin's worldly goods."

"No, I don't suppose you do, now," Albert murmured. He watched as Reynaldo attempted again to pet Carl's hair and was again swatted away. "Perhaps, though, you do long for something from him? Familial closeness?"

"'Familial closeness'," Reynaldo drawled, as though tasting each word for soundness like a foreign wine. "'Familial closeness' is not my first concern when faced with the work of the devil, brother. My first and only allegiance is to my God. You'd do well to remember that and not waste any more of your precious time on worldly pursuits--time better spent pondering the state of your own soul. If you need assistance in remembering that, please believe I'll be more than happy to provide it."

Rising, the Inquisitor drew his sword and even as Albert shouted out, he swung the sword downward, severing Carl's tether in a single stroke. Albert's shout roused Carl, causing his blue eyes to open and blink dazedly even as he struggled to sit up. Reynaldo's sword slid back into its sheath with a sharp metallic hiss. Then he leaned down, catching Carl's biceps and hauled the friar to his feet.

Half awake, still more in the dream realm, the up-close sight of Reynaldo's face looming within inches of his own served to galvanize Carl. Striking out, his fist impacted Reynaldo's right cheek solidly even as Carl fell back, scrambling away from the Inquisitor to crouch at Albert's side.

Wide awake now, Carl looked at the murderous hatred in Reynaldo's eyes and shuddered.

tbc


End file.
